


Weathering the Storm Under a Magpie's Wing

by Omnibard



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games), Red Dead Redemption 2
Genre: Other, screw TB AU, trying for the happy ending nobody really deserves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2019-10-31 05:31:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17843399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omnibard/pseuds/Omnibard
Summary: A wealthy young woman interferes when Arthur goes to collect money owed by the Downes family.  Their lives intersect again when everything goes wrong in Saint Denis.  Now with the lives of his friends hanging in the balance, the outlaw has no choice but to accept help from her.  Of course, this means entrenching himself in the quagmire of her problems as well...





	1. The Rough Man Rides In

They turned their heads at the sound of a horse approaching.  Mrs. Downes assured them with a helpless smile that it was ‘usual business’ these days, what with Mr. Downes’s charity work in Valentine.

“Though,” she admitted, “they usually can’t afford to come horseback by the time--”

“Mr. Thomas Downes…” The words were spoken loudly by a gruff male voice, more inquiry than greeting.

Mr. Downes replied with his usual energy and cheerfulness, “Yep, that’s me.”

Whatever the man coming on horse answered couldn’t be heard from the house, but Mr. Downes’s alarm was. “--Oh, no, no, no.  I’m…”

Mrs. Downes was frozen to her seat, her son Archie stiffened by the pantry, still holding the chipped teacups his mother had asked him to get down for their company.

Florence climbed to her feet and strode for the door, taking her satchel off the table.  Samuel, silent and loyal as always, at her heels.

“Miss Bligh!” Mrs. Downes called after her, and when the young woman didn’t turn back, the homesteader’s wife scrambled up to follow, her son all but dropping the teacups to follow.

 

Outside, in front of the fenced garden enclosing tall rows of corn and potatoes, stood a huge grey horse with a powerful build.  An equally large and powerful-looking man in a ragged hat had pushed through the garden gate to quickly close the distance between himself and Mr. Downes, who was stammering his pleas for the stranger to stay back.  When his pleas went ignored, he swung his rake in self-defense.

It was an unwise decision.

With one punch, Mr. Downes was sent to the ground where the rough man threatened to kick him.  Mrs. Downes gave a shrill cry of alarm, and Florence rushed from the house porch, ignoring the steps and hitching up her skirts to run.  “Stop!”

“Please, sir, I… I have a family!”

“I don’t  _ care _ about yer family!”

“Stop!” Florence shouted again, gaining the fence, “What is this about?”

Not heeding her once more, the rough man grabbed Mr. Downes by the shirt front and hauled him to his feet to shove back against the fence, “You borrowed money from my business partner, Herr Strauss--”

“--Stop it!” Florence hollered, “I have your money!”

“Miss Bligh--!” The man pushed away from Mr. Downes, releasing him, which triggered a coughing fit from the homesteader, interrupting whatever he meant to say.

“Thomas!” Mrs. Downes cried, hurrying from the porch herself, Archie only a stride or so in front of her.  Florence met them at the side of the gate, and the young man bravely tried to put himself between the rough man who’d attacked his father, and the women, but Miss Bligh did not fear for her own safety.  The fewer obstacles between this man and the money he’d come to collect, she reckoned, the better. She pushed past, Samuel still just behind her, and met the debt collector when he came out of the garden.

Thomas Downes was holding onto his fence, coughing wetly and trying to regroup to intervene on behalf of the young woman who was his guest.

“You got the money, you say?” The debt collector was a tall, broad man, his body shaped by hard work and rough living.  His hair sandy brown under his hat, and his face wearing a few days unshaven. Florence thought he might be mid-thirties, but it was alway so hard to tell on a face weathered by the West.  He regarded her with a clear blue gaze, though, and while tension remained in his broad shoulders, she suspected herself safe from violence.

“Yes, sir.”

“Miss Bligh, this ain’t necess--” Another coughing fit interrupted Mr. Downes once more.

Mrs. Downes folded her hands in front of her mouth, whether in fear or embarrassment, wasn’t clear, “Miss Bligh, please don’t--”

“--I owe them, you see.” Florence said firmly, opening her satchel, “I have come just before you, mister, to pay them back.  It seems God’s own luck that events should happen like this. Mr. Downes, please, would you be so good as to tell me how much money you borrowed from this man’s business partner?”

The debt collector gruffly told her a figure before glaring at Mrs. Downes and Archie who seemed to be trying to edge around him to the gate.  He demanded to know what they were looking at.

“Thomas…” Mrs. Downes said helplessly.

The homesteader seemed defeated by the truth of the circumstances, and he affirmed that the big man’s figure was the correct one.  His wife and son edged around the stranger into the garden and went to his aide.

Samuel was silent and watchful behind Florence while she counted out the bills and handed them to the debt collector.

“...Here you are, paid in full, then, sir.  Let me give you something for your time and clemency, good Mr. Downes is in poor health, so I am very thankful you did not hit him further… I would be thankful again should you and your business partner forget all about my friend, Mr. Downes, and his kind family, after today.  If you should find anything at all wrong with your payment here, please do come find me in Valentine at the hotel. Surely, you know the one? Call on a ‘Miss Florence Bligh’ there at the desk and I will be certain to meet with you. Is five dollars enough? I will be in town for a few days more, but then my train takes me back east.  Until then, ‘Miss Florence Bligh’ at the hotel in Valentine. I do mean it, so please mister, do not forget.” 

After her rush of words, money in hand, the big man seemed as if he wanted to say something.  Instead he just shook his head and placed the handful of bills into his own satchel, touched the brim of his hat briefly, and then stepped past her toward his mount before climbing up and riding away at a brisk lope.

 

“Y-you really shouldn’t’ve, Miss Bligh,” Mr. Downes groaned.

His wife shushed him, “It’s done now.  Come on, let’s get you in the house. Archie, help me…”   
“I absolutely should have and am glad I did.” Florence assured them, “I’ll join you inside presently, but first I think I shall check your wood here for some comfrey, yarrow, currants, sage-- something I can make a poultice for your bruises with.”

“There’s some of that yarrow across the road a bit, Miss Bligh,” Archie said, taking one side of his father to support him on the way to the house, “I saw it the other day doing chores.”

“Thank you, Mr. Downes, that’ll do nicely.”

 

The yarrow grew scarlet in a patch of sun between two trees across the road, and Samuel went with her as she gathered it up.

“I’ll have to ask if they’ve any vinegar,” She said, “That should help with swelling…”

Samuel’s eyes were on the road, watching and listening for more hoofbeats.

“It’s pretty country out this way,” Florence went on, “I would like to come back and stay awhile.  Keep on west maybe. See California. They say it’s paradise, you know. The Overland Route goes the whole way…”

The valley opened beneath her, and for a few heartbeats, she was lost in the wind and the sunshine, taken away by the hawk soaring down from the treetops above to the river far below.

Then she felt Samuel’s eyes and she rose to her feet, brushing out her skirts with one hand while the other arm carried her prizes from nature’s bounty.

“... I know.  There are other things I should worry about first.” Were her sighing words, before perking up with more energy, “Like a poultice for poor, dear, Mr. Downes!  Come along.”

 

Inside, she found the gathered Downes family in the kitchen, Archie busy over the stove making coffee, Mr. and Mrs. at the table, her cleaning the blood from his lip with a clean handkerchief.

“Oh,  _ coffee _ , that’s brilliant!” Florence glowed, “And I’ve some lovely yarrow here as well.  We will have your face healed nice and proper, do not worry a bit, Mr. Downes.”

“My face is not the most bruised part, Miss Bligh…”

She scoffed, “Please, sir, you must excuse me.  I did not see another way…”

“Notwithstanding wherever you got this money, Miss Bligh, but now he and his rotten gang know you  _ have _ money and where you will be staying!”

“She’ll stay here, then, Thomas, don’t worry--”

“No, I will not, madam,” The young woman retorted, “He and any of this ‘business partners’ are welcome to bring any grievances about their pay to the hotel like I said, and do not think for a moment I will change my mind!  If these men seek to make any trouble with me, I am not afraid to involve the sheriff who is just down the road. Surely they are not so brazen as to cause me trouble there in the middle of town!”

“Things are different out this way, Miss Bligh.  It’s not so civilized…”   
“Maybe no, but I do not think I have reason to worry.  I do not think that man will be back to bother any of us.  If he were inclined to answer us true, I do not think he has a taste for the work he came to do today.”

Mrs. Downes scowled, “‘Work’ is hardly the word.”

“Indeed.” Florence nodded, then took the spoon of boiled coffee grounds Archie passed her and blowed on them so that they might cool, “As far as where the money came from, I was just telling Mrs. Downes that Grandfather’s business was bought out, and since I’m the only inheritor left in the will…”

She shrugged helplessly.

“... It was unpleasant business.  I am glad it is done with now, and glad I was able to give a little something to all the families who worked with us.”

 

“I’m sure they’re grateful, Miss Bligh,” Mrs. Downes said sagely, taking the spoon when it was handed to her, “Oh these are still hot yet.”

“Yes, ma’am, maybe if you have any cool water about?”

“Archie…”

The young man left the pot of coffee on the table and went in search for enough water to fill a cup.

“There’s no reason to make such a fuss, it’s only a few bruises…” Mr. Downes grumbled.

“Thomas, you’re already sick…  Hush and be still. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

After mumbling that he might, at that, Mr. Downes returned to the conversation, “What about your house and land, Miss Bligh?”   
“Oh, that’s secure for now, I suppose.  You know I only have Miss Agnes and Miss Carrie to help me… and Samuel, of course, and Mr. Wineworth twice a week with the horses… So I should be able to support the house and staff for some years without the business.”

“Even so, you needn’t come rushing all this way just to pay us…”   
“And what might have become of you if I hadn’t?” Florence asked archly, “No.  I am quite glad I have done as I have. Now I think that is enough talk about money, thank you.  Tell me what is going on here in the heartland!”

The coffee cooled enough for a patch as they talked, and the young woman made use of a pestle and bowl to churn the yarrow root into mash for a poultice.  She joined them for supper, and after body aches and a violent fit of coughing sent Mr. Downes to bed early, Florence asked what news from the doctors concerning his prognosis.

“It will take him, we know,” Mrs. Downes said quietly, “We just can’t be sure when.  He has good days and bad. I’m afraid the winter may do in for him, if he even comes that far.”

“I pray for him every day,” Florence said gently, “And for you.  For strength and blessings. Will you be cared for here?”   
“The bank owns--”

“-- I will speak to the bank, then--”

“Miss Bligh, you really must not!” Mrs. Downes gripped her wrist, “You’ve blessed us enough, more than proper, perhaps, and my Thomas would die of broken pride the very hour he hears you’ve paid his debts to the bank!”

“Your Thomas preaches many days not far from that bank how we should care for our neighbors, Mrs. Downes, but I shall think on what you have said.  It is not kind of me to force myself into matters not my own… but please, you will let me know if things turn poorly? You helped me, helped a naive rich girl from the East when the lawyers said I needed money to have my family’s money.  If you had not done that, God knows where I might be now. You spared me a terrible fate, and if God wills it, I would like to spare you whatever suffering I can. Please promise me you will send for me if you need me.”

“Alright,” Mrs. Downes said, the heartfelt emotion in the younger woman’s words affecting her, bringing tears to her eyes, “I promise, then.”


	2. The Jagged Place

Heart stampeding, breath ragged, Arthur Morgan slipped through the cracks of that dark, cold place inside where ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ held no meaning-- the place he so often went when he gripped steel and horn to use against his fellow man, or balled his fist to wield the God-given weapons he had for the same-- and instead found himself in a quiet, jagged place.

A place where every edge cut inside like a razor with each drawn breath.  A place where his vision sharpened, but the picture narrowed, as if viewed from the bottom of a well.  A place where all around him, he could only smell blood.

A place where Hosea was dead, and no amount of money in that damnable vault was worth that cost.  No amount of dead Pinkertons would satisfy the debt.

_ Revenge is a fool’s errand… _

Yet, in this place, he knew with bone-deep certainty that it was not about that, now.  In his black guts, burning with every breath that cut at him in this place, he knew the reason he kept pulling the trigger was not for revenge of the fallen.

It was deeper,  _ older _ .  Purer.

_ Me and mine _ .

They’d wounded him there, in that deep, crimson jagged place, and though part of him knew it was right and just for them to come and stop them, because they were the law, and he was the thief, this place wouldn’t accept it.  That other place, the dark, cold place, knew the stakes. Knew the risks, and did not connect to the losses.  _ We lose people.  It’s how it goes sometimes… _  It was a place Dutch had fostered in him for twenty years.

_ This _ place did not accept.  This place would fight until his last, because no matter how often Dutch swore there’d be  _ no more losses _ , there were always more, and Arthur in that black, cold place kept accepting…

_ This  _ place drew the line.   _ No more _ .

_ Me and mine. _

So he didn’t turn when Dutch hollered at him to move back with him-- move  _ back _ , to a place of safety instead of out front where he might be between his people and those as might kill them?  Nonsense. His ears were listening for John and Lenny at the front doors while his eyes picked out target after target, lingering on each only long enough to verify the spray of blood and gore looked lethal enough that the shooter was going down for good.  His hands moved as if they knew already their purpose, steady and sure as he reloaded his revolvers swiftly and brought them up to kill again.

Dutch had said to dress smart and travel light, but now he wished he’d had any of his rifles.  Or all of them.

Arthur didn’t hear Dutch screaming at Bill to use the dynamite to blow a hole in the wall.  He was too busy emptying casings into the skulls of suited men who dared to enter his sights with hands dropped to holsters.

He didn’t stop until Lenny’s hand dropped hard onto his shoulder, Lenny’s voice in his ear, “Come on, Arthur, let’s go!”

“John--”  

“--I’ll be behind you, go!  Go!”

Hosea was still motionless in the street, but Arthur had left that jagged scarlet place and back into the cold, dark one.  There was nothing to be done for Hosea now, and staying would risk more of their lives.

Dutch preceded him up the ladder, and Lenny was behind him, so Arthur went, climbing fast and keeping low.  Above he could hear rifle-fire. It’d been Javier with the rifle, hadn’t it? Smart. Javier was a competent gunman for sure, but another wouldn’t hurt, so Arthur ducked beside him and picked out targets on the roofs across the road, letting the rifleman focus on the street.

Lenny started helping others up the ladder-- Arthur could hear Sean’s mouth, cursing up a storm, and he took the moment to remember and be grateful that he hadn’t died in Rhodes despite the gunshot taking them all by surprise when the Grays betrayed them.  Bad aim or good luck, as usual with the Irishman, one way or another. Micah, then Bill were next, then Kieran and Charles, both of them talking over each other about how the bank was overrun and the law had taken John.

_ The sunovabitch said he would be behind me! _ But he should have known better that he’d still be looking for Abigail after seeing what had happened to Hosea. “Killed him?”

_ No more… _

The scarlet jagged place threatened to swallow him again and send him back down the ladder.

“Arrested!”

Dutch spoke up, “We need to go or they’ll get all of us!  Arthur, what you think?”

“I reckon me an’ Lenny try and find a way across the roofs…” When he looked, Lenny nodded, with him.  Good kid. Still had his head. “So if you’ll cover us…”

“Sure, sure...”

He knew Dutch was rattled about Hosea, about John now, too.  Arthur couldn’t worry about that now. He had to get them all out of this mess.

“... Go on!” The gang leader urged, finding iron for his voice even if none of it was in his eyes and the blood had drained from his face.

They went at a run, Arthur taking point, though Lenny’s youthful, energetic stride soon forced him to cut around the older, bigger man.  Arthur’s hand was already moving to stop him even before he saw the men come from around the corner of the raised attic.

His other hand was at his holster, and Lenny’s almost there, but it was too late, the shotgun was already cocked and the muzzle already leveled.

_ Me and mine _ .

“No!  Lenny!”

With a roar, the young man was thrown off his feet like he’d been kicked by a horse, back into Arthur, who was thrown backward.  He felt his feet run out of ground, the short barrier wall cut his legs out from under him. The empty air greeted them.

He thought he yelled, maybe, watching the lawmen watch them plummet down to the street, but then gunshots took them down, and Charles shouted something.

Then there was a sickening impact and a crunch and everything was black and still.

 

* * *

 

 

Head ringing, throbbing.  Eyes and tongue dry, thick, and uncooperative.  Light and shadow leapt crazily across his twisting, hazy vision.  Pain everywhere and the taste of blood with every breath. Each inhale was punctuated with a stabbing pain that made the muscles in his torso jerk involuntarily.

But he was alive.

He was alive and his limbs still worked, however reluctantly, so with a low mumbled curse, the outlaw wriggled his way mostly upright.  Leaning heavily against the walls, he determined to stumble forward until something he was seeing made any sense at all.

He wasn’t dead, and he wasn’t in jail.

The darkness of the current passage gave way to light and the floor fell away to one side, sending the entire image into a sliding spin.  Throwing himself against the far wall, he clenched shut his eyes and teeth and wondered if a stiff drink would make things better or worse, if he could find one.   It was at that moment he remembered he didn’t have his satchel, and with the next tortured inhale, he realized he was missing his gun belt as well.

Also his suit jacket.  And shirt.

And boots.

Low voices further on.  Confused and hurting, the outlaw stumbled on, pushing through the door-- where was he?  A house? A hotel?--and found Lenny.

What was left of him, anyway.

Blood everywhere, all over him, all over the woman with the bloody little knife in her hand, cutting pieces out of him.

Arthur didn’t remember crossing the room, but he bellowed, demanding what the hell she thought she was doing, cutting up his friend like this.

What he  _ heard  _ from himself, however, was a slurred roar, “W’or’y’oin’?!” after barrelling into her and slamming her against the wall.  His arms were as uncooperative as his tongue, though, and he only managed to lean the strong bar of his forearm against her chest and throat instead of using his hand.  The other groped blindly to control her hand with the knife, but he couldn’t find it against the wall.

He hoped he didn’t find it in his ribs.

Someone’s hands found  _ him _ from behind, though.  Big, strong hands like his own, one wrenching back his head with the fist in his hair, the other with a big ranch knife at his throat.

“Wait!” The woman cautioned, alarm on her blood-spattered features, “Just calm down…”   
The outlaw told himself he very clearly demanded to know what, exactly, he had to stay calm about, regardless of what his ears heard.

She spoke softly, though whether that was to appear non-threatening, or because he was crushing her against the wall with his weight was unknowable, “You are going to be alright, mister.  I am sure you are very confused now, and maybe hurting some. You had quite a fall… Your friend here… I am doing my best, but I’m not a surgeon. I am as careful as I can be… Please let me go, mister, so I can stop his bleeding…”

Lenny was… alive?  She was… helping him?  It took a long time for that information to reach his limbs so he could rock backwards against the person holding him-- he started to swing back with an elbow as well, but the slippery sonovabitch ghosted somewhere to his left and so he stumbled backwards like a drunkard instead, barely keeping his feet.

“There’s a seat behind you you can have, mister.” The woman said after taking a moment to massage her throat.  Then she stepped back toward the blood soaked bed and bent over Lenny again.

“... H-h’ent’ dead?” The outlaw mumbled, dismayed. “... I saw’l… but I saw…”

“He was shot… There is a lot of lead in him, yet… I have been picking out what I could get at while cleaning him.  I am not sure what happened, really, but he took the brunt of the shot, and you took the brunt of the fall. You are both rather fortunate in that.  Please sit.”

Arthrur sat after a good bit of half-blind groping for the wooden chair that kept sliding just out of reach.  He’d almost chosen the floor on purpose after the first few attempts confounded and frustrated him. After a few moments, he thought he might’ve been better off choosing the floor, as there was no way to sit in the chair that didn’t cause a bright flower of pain to bloom wide in his body.

Though he’d determined to watch this woman and whatever she might be doing to Lenny-- something with cloth now, he thought…-- after blinking open eyes he didn’t remember closing, the outlaw found himself on the floor, propped back against the far wall after all, legs splayed in front of him.  The woman was crouched beside them, holding out a glass filled with blood.

… No, not blood.  Similar color, but this was clear and smelled like alcohol…

“‘S’at…?”

“A cordial, sir.” She answered encouragingly, “It will help with your pain.”

He took the glass and drank it, because it smelled a little like brandy, and he wouldn’t mind a glass of that now at all.  It was not brandy. The burn was there, but so was a lingering sweetness, and he made a face before shoving the empty glass back at her.  She withdrew, and he watched her return to the bed and Lenny for a few minutes before the dark closed in and he drifted away.


	3. Knothollow Grove

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (About distances/travel times/locations: If you've played the games, you know the map is a fictional-almost-representation of parts of the US. Travel times were measured in-game at a reasonable travel-speed of walking and trotting a horse along the roads on the most direct route...)

A glare of sunlight brought him around, and he raised an arm to rub at his eyes.  A long line of pain shot through his entire body for his efforts, forcing him to groan throatily, which was also a mistake.

_Goddamn ribs.  Musta broke one or two…_

A dagger of light cut across his face from between the drawn curtains.  Curtains. Bedroom. He was still on the floor, covered in a blanket. Lenny was still over there in the bed, bandaged in clean linen strips.  Arthur couldn’t help but notice how strange it was to see after all the past years of old scraps of threadbare cloth scrubbed as desperately clean as possible for bandaging.  The damnable wooden chair was still nearby, and on it was a glass of water, and what appeared to be a note.

Desperately thirsty, tongue and throat feeling dry and thick, he scoot over to pick up both, ignoring the stab of pain from his ribs.  The glass went to his lips even before he scanned the neat lines of script on the crisp paper:

 

> _Drink this all, even if you think it tastes strange.  It will help you breathe properly. If you can stand, there is a bit of something to eat by the wash basin.  Please wash your hands and face before eating, for your health. If you cannot stand, you should rest more before eating in any case.  I am out in the stables, but should you need anything, call out, as the house knows to listen for you._

It _did_ taste strange, and he almost spit it out and disregarded the note’s instructions on the principle that he didn’t accept tainted food and drink, especially from strangers, especially after the _last_ disaster…

But then he remembered the ‘cordial’ and Lenny’s clean bandages and decided that if the idea was to kill them, it could have been done easy enough already.  He swallowed down the oddly bitter water, and felt admittedly better after the glass. The next several minutes were spent cursing himself to his unsteady feet where he found the side table with the wash basin and pitcher in white porcelain and the small blue-rimmed bowl of stewed meal and milk.  Before addressing either one, though, Arthur took a good look at Lenny.

Breathing, pulse at his throat.  Warm. There was another note on the bedside table, this one shorter:

 

> _Please do not try to get out of bed.  You are badly injured but safe here. If you have questions, I will return before dark.  Rest more._

He wondered if Lenny was supposed to wake up soon, then.  That would be good, but… He remembered a lot of blood, but maybe he was remembering wrong.  After all, he _also_ remembered somewhere in this… house, he supposed it was… was a place where the floor gave way like a great trap door.

Turning for the bowl, he remembered the note’s instructions about washing, and though it made him roll his eyes, he obliged the author since they’d gone to the effort of leaving instructions and food.  It was pleasant to find the bowl still warm and the stewed meal and milk crusted with honey and cinnamon. The food went down easy, and sat in his belly warm and comfortable. Leaving the bowl where he’d found it, and determining his efforts would be much better spent elsewhere instead of pretending he could nursemaid poor Lenny, Arthur moved quietly for the door, grimacing at the dull throb in his body with every step.

Beyond the bedroom door he stood in a hallway, and in front of him was a bannister which might prevent him from falling from this floor to the one below.  A large window stood above the stairs landing a bit to his right, flooding this area with daylight. Across the way was another similar hallway, painting for the outlaw a picture that the house was not small.  This second floor was quiet, but downstairs he could hear sounds of movement and music behind closed doors. At the foot of the stairs was another side table and another note, as well as what looked like folded clothes and his boots.

“What th’hell kinda game…” He muttered, equal parts confused and intrigued.  The stairs he took with trepidation, holding perhaps a bit more firmly to the railing than usual, and he heard the music stop.  At the bottom, he picked up the note and found the same paper and same neat script as the other two.

 

>     _You can borrow these until I can get your others cleaned and mended.  You can change in the powder room just across from this table. Take care with your ribs._

Nudging open the door just beyond the table, he found a small chamber with a vanity and sizeable bevel mirror, a cushioned seat, and a wash basin.  Taking the clothes and stepping inside, the outlaw shut the door, and almost by instinct found himself sliding open the narrow wooden drawers. Inside each were grooming items for females: several hair combs and brushes, an assortment of ribbons and other items, pigments for lips and eyes, and an unlabelled jar containing a waxy cream that smelled of honeysuckle.  There was also a small sewing kit. Closing the drawers again, the man chuckled at himself-- before groaning at the paroxysm of pain it cost him-- wondering what he’d thought to find. He dressed carefully in the borrowed clothes, noting a few issues with the fit-- apparently he was borrowing from only a slightly shorter, thinner man-- but the quality was good, and they were clean, so he had few complaints about them.  He then left the room, noting that the music-- a hesitant piano, somewhere in this great big house-- had resumed. Nobody came to investigate any noise he was making. Other than the piano and some rummaging noises from a door across the atrium, in what Arthur reckoned to be the kitchen, the house was silent.

It was strange, a great big house like this so quiet.  Where was the fussing Missus? The hassled servants? The rambunctious children?  Was _everybody_ outdoors?  Shoving on his boots, the outlaw decided to find out.

The front porch was large, wrapping around to either side, and set with chairs and a small card table as well as flower boxes growing fragrant blooms.  The late spring sunshine was warm, despite the chill in the breeze, as he descended the porch steps to the walk. There was something familiar about the line of mountains on the not-too-distant horizon around him, but he couldn’t place it.  Arthur was fairly certain he hadn’t been in this part of the country before now. That’d put him north, further east, or both, he reckoned, and didn’t like the prospects of it.

According to the first note, its author was at the stables, so he went toward the low, long building, following the walk around the mansion, that led between the green pastures.  Across from the long stables, featured in the other pasture, was a small barn. As he neared, breathing decidedly more of a struggle the longer he walked and ignored the stabbing pain of his ribs, he noticed a number of runs on the back half of the facing stables.  Half a dozen mares-- four of them were morgans, bay and bloody bay, along with two other draft breeds he couldn’t immediately identify, grazed contentedly. A heavily pregnant buckskin raised her head as he neared and knickered, regarding him with soft eyes.

A tall young man was further up the way, nearer the stables, making repairs to the fence.  Broad-shouldered and blond, he paused his work, lowering his sledgehammer to watch Arthur approach.  As the distance closed between them, it became clear that the young man was not happy to see him, which made it very likely he was not the author of the notes.  In fact, the cast of his lake-water gaze was antagonistic enough for Arthur to want to say something about it.

He changed his mind, however, when he saw the woman just inside the stables.

She’d been mucking stalls, apparently, in a chemise and skirt with the hem pulled up from the back, between her legs and then somehow tied around her waist, like some strange type of breeches.  It was such an odd sight that it took him a handful of moments, even after she faced him, for him to notice the wide spread of blue-black across her exposed throat, shoulders, and chest.

“Good morning!” She called brightly, “I thought you might be on your feet today, after all.  I am glad to see you read my notes. Were you able to eat at all? Oh, I see the clothes do not quite fit, I suppose I shall have to call on the tailors…”

A flurry of words accompanied by a smile.  He remembered her. “I… know you,” He replied, “... ‘Miss Florence Bligh’... Valentine hotel.”

Yes, it was the same woman who’d paid in the stead of Thomas Downes back west, weeks ago.  The same dishwater hair, short stature, and slender build. The same ready smile and merry eyes, the color of a lake on a clear day.  The same gray-green-blue as the young blond man’s.

“Yes, indeed.  I am flattered that you should still remember, mister!” She beamed, then gestured toward the young man, “This is Samuel, my brother.  Please do not think him ill-mannered, he does not speak to anybody. Though, as anybody will tell you, I speak enough for the both of us…”

Samuel in fact said nothing at all and only continued to watch the outlaw, as if expecting he should do something untoward.

“Excuse me, Miss Bligh, but what the hell are you doing?” Arthur demanded, “Where in the world am I?”

“Why… I am mucking stalls, as it needs doing,” Was her answer, “You’re here in front of my stables, in Knothollow Grove, just east of Halford.”

“Halford!” That was in Pennsylvania, half a day north of Annesburg.  It was a smaller town, little more than a train stop, he’d heard, but an excellent transport depot for coal and furs from the mountains.  It was a full day of riding from here to Saint Denis. “Why the devil am I in _Halford!”_

“Because I _brought_ you here of course!” Miss Bligh laughed without a smidge of irony or malice.  It was the laugh of a young girl, sweet and innocent. “What else was I supposed to do when you and your friend fell in the back of my cart?”

“Two strange men fall off a roof in town and you bring them _home_ ?!” Arthur spluttered, unsure whether he was more dumbfounded or _concerned_ for her, “What’s the matter wit’ you?!”

Samuel was still glaring, but he noted how those eyes slid over toward his sister, as if trying to convey the weight of his agreement with his gaze alone.  The young lady just continued to smile and she shrugged a badly bruised shoulder helplessly, “Two strange men were _shot off_ the roof by lawmen during what sounded like a bank robbery and fell a dangerous height into the back of my cart.  Felicity is a good girl, but not my steadiest, and she is quite gun-shy yet. Seeing as she bolted onto the street and the law were still searching, I thought it wisest to just keep going.  Much as I wanted to stop at the doctor’s office, he was locked up tight, as I imagine he was being requisitioned by the city to help anybody the robbers didn’t manage to kill straight away! My business was completed, so we left.  I knew what I could do for you and your friend, and I knew you would be safe here.”

“You know that, do you?”

“Nobody knows who are are, and even if somebody might recognize your face, they have no reason to look for you here, mister…”

“Nobody but you,” Pointed out Arthur, “An’ yer stink-eyed brother.”

“Who aided and abetted your escape,” Was her patient reply, “And are currently providing you succor.  It does not benefit us to go to the law, now.”

“It don’t benefit you t’help us neither.”

“You needed… you _need_ help.  That’s all.”

“And I’m sure you don’t want _anything_ in return for yer kindness…” Was the drawling reply, dripping with doubt.

Blinking at him, she met his gaze, “No, there are a number of things I want from you…”

Arthur scoffed, nodding to himself.  Of course she did! Dutch had told him all about people like her while growing up, and he’d seen them himself over the years.  There was always _some_ catch to the “generosity” of the wealthy.

“... But of the majority, I will not ask, as we are only barely acquainted.  In the meantime, I ask only that you rest, eat well, heal, and do no harm to those in my house or my neighbors.”

“What’s this ‘majority’, then?”

“You must excuse me, but it would be improper of me to bring it up now--”

“-- I ain’t one for surprises or pin-tail deals, miss.”

There those innocent eyes blinked again, “... Mister, if I ask of you these things, it will be because you have come to trust me enough to hear them out.  Until then, they are useless words and I do not want impose upon you. Therefore, for the present: rest, eat well, heal, and do no harm while you stay under my roof.”

“... You sure have a habit of borrowin’ trouble, Miss Bligh…” Was his admonishment.

Another tinkle of laughter, “You would not believe how often I hear that, mister.”

“Oh I might…”  
“Anyway,” She indicated the stables, “I am sure you are wanting to sit, and there is a chair or two in here, as well as some hay bales if they suit you.  Maybe you can step inside and tell me what best I can do for these other two that came with you?”

“Other two...?” Echoed Arthur, and he stepped into the stables beside the young woman.

In the first two stalls on his right, he saw Slim and Maggie.  Both looked rather comfortable, though the big iron-gray Ardennes kept stamping his big hooves and pinning his ears, as if something in the stables upset him.

Similar stamping was heard down at the far end of the stables.  Miss Bligh sighed and shook her head, “Lancaster and this boy have been at it since they laid eyes on each other.  It does not help any that half the herd is in season… Fortunately, they both seem to have manners enough to only stamp on the floor instead of kick the walls like some of the mares…”

Arthur spared ‘Lancaster’ a glance-- a big, sleek midnight creature with a long mane hanging in its face-- before stepping over to shush Slim and pat his thick neck.  Maggie nudged his elbow, inquisitively, munching sweet hay. Both of them looked recently groomed, and a scratch on Maggie’s cheek had been dabbed with some kind of ointment that kept the flies away so it could heal clean.

The young woman was still talking, “If they get on well enough together, I could turn them out this afternoon to let them stretch their legs and get a lay of the land.”

Six mares outside, the black uncut male down the way, and two other horses besides Slim and Maggie, here.  Nine local horses total, by Arthur’s count. “... Lotta horses for just you and your brother, miss...”

“My uncle was interested in breeding before he passed two years ago.  He brought Lancaster across the Atlantic himself and stood him up stud around New York, where everybody wanted a flashy Friesian, for awhile.  Once he got sick, he wanted to rest at home, so he came here. The Morgans are for the coaches-- my grandfather and mother preferred them-- and the big bay shire outside was lamed and abandoned nearby ages ago.  The buckskin is out of her and a stud across the valley, and she’s been giving us pretty colts being stood-to by Lancaster that sell nice for single-carriage and under saddle.”

“I can’t imagine your momma approves of your bringing home strange men…”

“She likely would not, if she were around to protest,” Miss Bligh admitted, “She was a nervous woman, and died shortly after her brother did, bless them.”

Arthur moved both hands subconsciously to grip the front of his belt, but found nothing but empty air.  He covered his flub by clearing his throat, “... So just you an’ yer brother in that great big house, with nine horses?”

“Miss Agnes and Miss Carrie help keep house, but yes, it is just my brother and I who care for the horses.”

The outlaw had no reply.  It was nonsensical. This girl went around the country borrowing trouble, when she had what was guaranteed to be nothing but troubles piling up here at home!  No wonder her brother didn’t speak. He’d probably given up trying to talk any sense into her years ago, nevermind her poor ‘nervous’ momma.

The small young woman fiddled with her rake a few moments before speaking again, “... Was your friend awake when you left him?”

“Nah.”

She nodded, thoughtful, “... I have sent for a doctor from up north-- someone I trust for their discretion.  It might be awhile before they can come down this way. I… will keep him comfortable until then.”

“How long?”

“I do not know.  I only just sent the letter.  Could be a few weeks.”

Frowning, Arthur leaned carefully back against the stall door, “... You don’ know a doctor closer?”

“I know as much as any doctors you will find around these parts,” Was her declaration, “Your friend needs more… particular… care.  Careful surgeries. Few enough surgeons will practice in a patient’s home anymore, and you and your friend have prices on your heads in most places south of here where I might be able to reach one, mister.”

“You know that, do you?”

She blinked at him, but didn’t answer.  Instead she turned back for the stalls to resume mucking them out.  Arthur saw the dark marks across the backs of her shoulders.

_I couldn’t’ve done all that…_

Samuel gave him another long look before turning and heading back to his fence work.

Moving carefully, Arthur pulled over a wooden chair from the corner and dusted off the cobwebs to have a seat and do some thinking.

He and Lenny had been brought far north in poor shape.  What had happened to Dutch and the other men from the bank disaster?  What about those left back at the camp? Had Abigail gotten away, or was she in the keeping of the Pinkertons along with John?

Most immediately: how was he gonna learn any of this from _here_?


	4. The Sweet Sting

“Boy, you keep eye-ballin’ me…” Arthur rumbled, pointing at the younger, blond man across the dining table with his fork, “an’ your sister is gonna hafta bury one more family member.”

Samuel’s gaze did not waver, nor did the sharp edge of his look dull.

Miss Bligh swept back into the room, hair tidied, blouse and skirt changed from the stables, apron on, carrying a tea tray, which she set down next to Arthur’s elbow, “Please do not threaten, promise, or commit violence against anybody while you are here… I thought we agreed on this?  Samuel, please stop antagonizing him.”

“I don’ remember agreein’ to anything, miss…” The outlaw informed her bluntly returning to his plate, and giving the small teapot some consideration from the corner of his eye.

“Would you like some honey in your tea?” She asked instead, as if he hadn’t said anything that might indicate she and her household could be in danger.

“Tea?  I don’ drink--”

“--It will help with inflammation, as well as digestion.  I usually take mine with honey, as it can be a little bitter.” She proceeded to pour some of the steaming concoction into two dainty porcelain cups over saucers and placed one next to his glass of water, and the other next to hers, “The honey is just here.  You can help yourself. I am going to fetch Miss Agnes. Miss Carrie should come along shortly, I believe she’s finishing with the rolls…” Then she swept right out of the room again, like an errant breeze.

Arthur gave the other man a bewildered look, “... Your sister seems t’have a _hearin’_ problem…”

Samuel cocked an eyebrow in such an eloquent and expressive way that the outlaw understood precisely the level of ironic humor being conveyed in response.  It was at that moment that he realized he couldn’t bring himself to genuinely dislike the handsome young man, despite the edge to his circumspect looks.

And he _was_ handsome, far more handsome than his sister-- not that she was bad looking, simply plain, a bit on the pretty side.  Samuel surely turned heads wherever he went with his wheat-blond, gently curling hair, noble facial features, and strapping build.

Still.  None of that would prevent Arthur from smashing his face with his fist if he kept on with the haughty looks.  He’d spent too much of his life learning that the haughty were the true villains in this world, exerting their power over others by withholding wealth from the needy, and lording over the masses the power afforded them by their affluence.  Dutch had raised him up to be the hammer that broke their backs.

Though, admittedly, lately it seemed as if Dutch’s priorities were skewing.  If Arthur examined things too closely, it started to creep into his thoughts that the boss’s energies were directed more toward _personal vendetta_ …

Fortunately, nobody was looking at him to examine things that close.  That was always _Hosea’s_ lot…  But now Hosea was dead.

Samuel was still looking and Arthur’s thoughts had blackened his mood further.  He was about to growl further warning, but the kitchen door swung open and a full-figured black woman bustled in carrying a basket of buttered rolls.  She gave him a passing glance before sighing in exasperation.  
“Miss Bligh don’ listen to nobody when she gets this idea in her head, do she.” Her words were directed accusingly toward Samuel who made an off-hand gesture, as if this were a very routine point of contention and a tired argument.

“Well, no use fussin’ at her over it, yeah?  Either she ends up right or we end up in a scrape an’ no fussin’ is gonna stop her from doin’ it again.  I _know_ …”

When nobody spoke up to dispute this, she brought the basket over to Arthur to offer him a roll, “Here. --Nah, go on, you better take two.  Big bastard like you… Miss Bligh says we’re takin’ care of you, so that’s what we’re doin’. Go on.”

“Well, then… thank you… ma’am,” The outlaw furrowed his eyebrows, but obligingly took two of the warm, buttery rolls.

“‘Ma’am’ nothin’.  You’ll call me ‘Miss Carrie’ like everybody else, or nothin’ at all!” Was the scolding as the woman circled the table to place the basket at Samuel’s elbow, “‘Ma’am’ he says… how old does he think I am?”

They shared a look, then, Miss Carrie and the wealthy young man, exchanging some silent communication as the former collected a roll for herself before moving to sit next to the latter.  She didn’t appear that old, in actuality, younger than Arthur, but older than the siblings and Lenny.

Mildly rankled but equally amused, Arthur retorted, “You sure got a mouth on you, miss--”

He was interrupted by the opening door again, “--Don’t let her fool you, mister, Miss Carrie is as sweet as peaches unless threatened, though she does speak her mind plainly.  I much prefer it.”

“Thank you, Miss Bligh.” The other woman said, pouring herself a glass of water.

The young hostess had come in with a third woman, this one even younger, little more than a girl.  Her hair was dark and worn long over the shoulders, and though her skin was fair, Arthur could tell in her face that she was of mixed heritage.  She was also apparently either frightened out of her wits or crushingly shy as she immediately wilted under his inspection and hurried to the seat on Miss Carrie’s other side, dark eyes wide.

“Right,” Miss Bligh said brightly, “This is Miss Carrie Hattingold, and this is Miss Agnes Walters…”

After a pregnant pause that began to chafe at the back of Arthur’s neck, he turned to the females and greeted, “Ladies.”

“... And this is one of our guests who will… introduce himself in his own good time, I imagine.” If Florence felt any embarrassment, it didn’t show.  She settled in her seat next to Arthur-- which earned her a look from both Samuel and Carrie-- and immediately began asking earnestly after everyone.

In order to avoid further pestering over the issue, Arthur sipped some tea, made a face, and didn’t protest when his hostess put some honey in the cup.  Meanwhile the women talked around him. Carrie went on about her impatience with the stove and the laundry. Agnes was brought around to whisper about her piano practice.  Florence appeared to listen to all of it with keen interest, as if the domestic goings-on of her house were the most interesting news. She asked after him as well, but he kept his answers short and vague, more prepared to listen than talk, and so she left him be except to offer him more to eat.  It was a far cry better cooking than Pearson’s, that was for sure, so he accepted.

After the meal, Samuel went to see to the stables for the evening, and the women went to address the kitchen.  Miss Bligh made it very clear that Arthur was welcome to go wherever he liked, so he walked the house, room to room.  There were eight bedrooms in total, all upstairs, three sitting rooms-- one featured a grand piano and a large assortment of books, the dining room, the kitchen, the atrium, and the conservatory.  All of the rooms were spacious, and the common rooms that much larger. Of the bedrooms, only three appeared to be routinely occupied, and unless he was very mistaken about the contents stored within, all three were occupied by the three females.  The others-- except the room Lenny was currently recovering in-- were not in use, as all the furniture was covered in dust cloths, the curtains drawn, and the fireplaces cold and bare. The only exception was the single bed Arthur had woken in that first time, which was left uncovered, but the drape cloth was on the floor at the foot of the bed, as if tossed there in a hurry.  He poked open closets and wardrobes-- larger storage areas-- searching for his things as he went. Chances were good he wouldn’t need his guns here to deal with these four, but that didn’t mean he didn’t want them.

He felt naked without them.

While checking in on Lenny, he lifted the bedclothes enough to verify that he was mostly naked, and so _his_ equipment was missing as well.  Furthermore, if Lenny situated Maggie’s saddlebags the way Arthur did his, then that meant somewhere on this property was a decent _armory_ of weapons and ammunition.

And maybe a good bit of money.

Something smelled wrong about this whole thing, though.  It was _too convenient_ that four young people were sitting in this big house, purportedly wealthy enough to pay off the debts of people halfway across the country, with no protection.  They were such an obvious and _soft_ target, why hadn’t any _other_ enterprising criminals come to take everything that could be carried or driven?  It wasn’t reasonable to think there were simply _no lawless folks_ around here to do such things, especially if Halford was as small as he’d been told.  More than that, nothing was locked, and he was given free range of the property already.  He was being fed and medicated, and if Miss Bligh was to be believed, Lenny was being cared for until a surgeon could make a house call to pull the twisted bits of metal out of him she couldn’t reach.  They had been aided in their escape of the Pinkertons, and were being _hidden_ here from the law.

It was too convenient by far.  People weren’t kind like this-- he’d fallen prey to such ‘kindness’ as this before, and it’d turned out horrible consequences every time.  He needed to be careful, for Lenny’s sake if nothing else.

He heard someone come up the stairs, and it was Miss Bligh when the door opened, “... I thought you might be here,” She said softly, shifting the tray on her narrow hip. “Is he still not awake?”

“No.”

“I dosed him fairly well.  I wanted him to rest as comfortable as possible so he might heal.”

Indicating with one hand, the tray, he asked, “What’s that?”

“Tea.  Broth. If he was awake, he ought to have something…”

“I ain’t a doctor, miss, but you sure it’d be a good idea for him to swallow with holes in him like he has?”

She set the try down on the bedside table, and checked the young man’s breathing and temperature.  Her hands were gentle and her voice remained soft, “... The blast caught him full in the chest and left shoulder, mister.  His entrails are blessedly untouched. The Lord sent his mightiest angel to look after him, too, as his heart and lungs are undamaged.  I picked out what I could, but… there are a few pieces around both I… do not trust myself to pick out. It needs a surgeon’s skill, you see.  So I keep him sedated and calm, because I fear if he gets excited, those metals bits will tear deep and likely kill him. But he still needs to eat and drink.”

“An’ your surgeon is maybe weeks away.”

“I made clear the urgency in my letter, as much as I dared without giving you away.  I trust them. They will come as soon as they are able.”

Looking her in the face, he almost believed she was as earnest as she sounded.  So he almost asked again, even though she’d made clear she wouldn’t explain down at the stables.  But he changed his mind, because he wouldn’t believe any answer she gave him, anyway. He’d just have to be careful and choose his moments.

“You should get some more rest, too.” She told him, “I have no doubts of your resiliency, but you really ought to take care.”

“I suppose you’re right…”

“I’ll get that other room cleaned up--”

“--I’ll stay in here, if that’s alright.”

“Well then I guess I will put together a pallet for you to sleep on, then…”

“That’s ok.  I’m used to sleepin’ on the ground.”

The young lady blinked at him, considered the tray, then let it sit, “Suit yourself.  If he does wake up, please let me know. I’ll be downstairs in the study.”

“Room with the piano?”

“The very same.”

“Miss Agnes plays pretty nice,” He said, almost to himself.

Beaming, Miss Bligh replied, “I think so too.  You should say so to her yourself, sometime. She does not really listen to my praises anymore.”

“We’ll see… Don’ let me keep you.  Enjoy yer evenin’, miss.”

“Rest well.”

* * *

 

Lenny didn’t wake.  Not even after Arthur had set in the chair long enough to doze off, only to wake, groaning, at the sharp, stabbing stiffness in his entire torso.  Downstairs, he heard a fiddle sawing slow and sweet. It was a much more complex, confident manner of playing than the piano had been, and Arthur idly wondered if Miss Agnes felt more comfortable with a fiddle than a piano.

He’d just cajoled himself to his feet when he heard a sharp pounding from the front of the house, and the music cut off.  Arthur moved too, heading for the stairs, but not yet heading down them, keeping to the dark of the upstairs. Little moonlight came in through the atrium window.

Someone was at the door.

From his vantage, peering over the banister, he could see Samuel, followed closely by his sister approach the door.  Miss Carrie’s voice came from somewhere further back, “Who would come callin’ at this time of night? Trouble only, I’m thinkin’!”

“Someone _in_ trouble,” Miss Bligh said with conviction.

The young man opened the door, placing his body purposefully between his sister and the interior of the house and whoever it was outside, effectively blocking Arthur’s view.

“My God!” The young lady exclaimed, pushing around her brother, ducking under his arm holding the door open.  Someone groaned-- a man, and there was something so _familiar_ about the sound, that Arthur came around the banister and slowly started down the stairs to investigate.

“Can you stand, mister?  Can you walk? -- Samuel, help me get him up!”

The outlaw was halfway down the stairs when the young man moved out onto the porch, letting the front door swing fully open.  Out in the light pooling from the indoors, he saw them trying to pull a silver-haired man with a chest full of blood to his feet to bring indoors.

“Wh-what the _devil?!_ ” He heard himself exclaim, stumbling roughly down the rest of the stairs so that pain choked him at the bottom of them, bringing tears to his eyes and threatening to send supper back up his throat from his clenching guts.

It was Hosea.

“...Y… you was…” He gasped, breathless.

“Excuse us, please, mister, he has lost a lot of blood… Miss Carrie!  Please bring my big suture kit!” Miss Bligh took the situation easily in hand, her voice calm and steady, “Let’s take him to the front parlor, we can lie him on the coffee table there.”

They went and Arthur followed, slowly, struggling to maintain steady breathing while his chest seized in pain.  Hosea stumbled to carry any of his weight on his own two feet, and appeared to shift in and out of consciousness.  Hearing Arthur’s struggle, the young hostess looked over her shoulder at him, expression stitched with concern.

“Mister, are--”

“--Fine… Jus’... jus’ see t’him.”

The front parlor was a bright and airy room with elegantly vaulted ceilings and sophisticated furnishings  The coffee table mentioned was a large oak table set low and long in front of the sofa. Moving with practiced efficiency, the siblings laid down the injured man on his left side, exposing both entry and exit wounds, the sister taking a pillow from the sofa for his head.

“Sir, I am going to dress your wound, all right?  Just try and relax. Mister,” Miss Bligh looked at Arthur then, “sit down, there.  Give your diaphragm a moment to relax again before you do yourself a worse injury.”

There was something so firm in her voice that the outlaw wordlessly complied, settling himself gingerly in the overstuffed chair in the corner, lest she turn him out of the room entirely.

Hosea was alive.  He could tolerate anything, at the moment.

Miss Carrie hurried in carrying a large leather fold-over case with both hands, which she set down by where Florence knelt, “... How many shot men we takin’ in?” She demanded.

“All of them,” Was the quiet reply, firm with conviction, “As many as come.”

The answer seemed to take the other woman aback a moment, and she gentled her tone considerably when she  said, “... I know, honey. You need anythin’ more?”

“Boiled water, clean cloths.  See if him in the corner needs a cold compress?”

Arthur waved Miss Carrie off, steadying his breathing as much as he was able.  His gaze was fixed on the man on the table, getting his gun belt, shirt, and waistcoat pried off.  Hosea moaned at the pain.

“... I’ve got to get this cleaned, it looks like you were lying in a gutter, mister…” The young woman kneeling by the coffee table said to nobody in particular as Miss Carrie swept back in with a small stack of folded cloths.

“These is clean… Miss Agnes is heatin’ up the water, but it might take a bit, you know…”  
“I know.  I have some phenol, but not enough after the young man upstairs… Do we still have any of that moonshine unopened?  If we don’t, I know we have some whiskey, though I loathe to use it on a wound if I can avoid it… Also some of that new honey we just canned-- thank you for reminding me.  It will keep the sutures sterile before I bandage him. It is a lot, I am sorry. Samuel, will you-- Bless you.”   
Samuel got up at once and went with Miss Carrie to collect the things requested.

“...Still breathing steady, mister?” Asked the young hostess as she poured the clear contents of a bottle out of the case into a clean cloth from the stack and wiped her hands carefully with it.

“... Well ‘nough,” Arthur replied, “Can’t sit here, though.  Anythin’ I can do?”

“You know this man?”

“Sure.”

“You suppose you can help him lie still while I disinfect this wound?”

“Sure, I can hold him down.”

“Good, because this will hurt like hellfire as he’s awake…” She gave a small smile, “and I do not fancy a broken nose or jaw…”

So saying, she took another clean cloth and emptied the bottle onto it.  Whatever it was-- ‘phenol’ she said?-- released a sweet, almost burnt smell into the room.  She beckoned with her free hand for Arthur to come over, and he made his way over, settling on one knee opposite the short table of her.

“Alright, old man…” He said as Hosea’s head and eyes rolled toward him.

“... A-Arthur…” He gasped.

Using both hands, the outlaw took hold of his raised shoulder and steadied his back, “Relax.”

Barely a moment after the young woman began blotting the cloth against the gunshot wound in his chest, Hosea cried out and struggled against Arthur’s hold.  One gnarled hand gripped the lady’s forearm, but she slipped free and resumed her work, murmuring encouraging platitudes. The old man seemed to lose his strength, then, and his eyes rolled back.

“Hey--!”

“Shh.  It is common enough.”  
“He’s already not well, miss… I don’... I don’ want…” He couldn’t articulate what he wanted outside of _not wanting to watch him die again_.

“This is a bad wound, mister.” She told him gently, “Worse than your other friend.  Cleaner… it went right through… but I do not know if the bullet missed his lungs, or how long infection might have set in.  I will do my best. I will do my best and pray. I suggest you do the same, if you are the praying sort…”

Arthur wasn’t, of course.  If God was everything the church said He was, then they had turned their separate roads over twenty years ago... Instead he watched quietly while she sponged the strange smelling liquid over both wounds.  He did not move aside when her brother returned with a jar of moonshine and a jar of honey. Another cloth was soaked in the alcohol and sponged over the wounds, and a bit was sloshed inside both as well.

“Not elegant, but it should help.  He will be a bit worse before he is better, but with God’s help, that will do for staving off infection.  I can keep him comfortable. Do you know what he’s sick with?”

“No… Just… coughin’, hackin’ all the time.”

“... That’s not good with this injury.”

He reckoned so, but felt a desperation to be helpful, to say something that would make her help him believe he’d pull through like she had about Lenny, “Keepin’ ‘im warm should help.  It’s th’cold mostly that worsens him.”

“I will do what I can,” She nodded, soaking her suture needle hook in more moonshine, “Take heart.”

Her hands were steady as she sewed up the old conman’s flesh, then smeared the sutures with honey.  A pad for each wound was made with clean gauze, and this was bound with clean linen, like with Lenny.

“If he has a cough, we do not want to aggravate it.  I would like to air a closed up room before putting him in there.  Let’s put him in my room, I can sleep down here.”

Arthur moved to help Samuel scoop up the old man, but Miss Bligh firmly waved him off, “You have at least one, probably two broken ribs, I do not want you lifting anything heavier than a teacup, mister!”

“Well… I…” Arthur started to growl a protest, then sighed, unable to find the wherewithal to argue with the woman who had saved his life, Lenny’s life, and hopefully now Hosea’s. “Fine…”

The siblings carried the conman up the stairs.  When only Samuel came down, again to pick up the suture kit and clean up the table, Arthur slowly climbed up the stairs to check on Lenny and try and figure out which of the other rooms was the hostess’s.

Lenny was still not awake, and he found the young woman and Hosea in the room at the front of the house.

“... Tomorrow I will go to town to get more medical supplies,” She said when she saw him standing in the door, “Something tells me I will need them…”

“... I don’ know how he found us.  I… He was dead in the street, last I saw him.” Arthur told her.

“Maybe he’ll tell us when he wakes up.” Shrugged the lady, “... Did you need something?”

“Yes…” The outlaw shifted uneasily in the doorway, then went into the room to stand near her, “... I need you to tell me outright what you want in return.  This ‘majority’ you mentioned…”

She didn’t answer right away, her innocent lake water eyes rising from Hosea to search his face in the lamp light.

“... You think this is _quid pro quo_ …”

“Huh?”

“... You think I am going to ask a service of you.  That you will owe me for all this.”  
“I _do_ owe you,” He retorted, confused, “I know that.”

“No,” She said simply, “You do not understand.”

“Clearly!”

Tucking Hosea into the large bed with fine sheets, she turned fully to the big outlaw and said, “... I want you to get well, mister.  I want you and your friends to heal and be whole.”

“An’ after that?  Then what?”

“Once you are _whole_ ?  Once you are _whole_ , I will be more than satisfied.” She smiled.

Frowning, Arthur wondered what she meant by ‘whole’, “... When are you gonna talk sense, miss?  Why is it so hard to answer a question?”

“You are not asking the right question,” Was her shrugging reply.

“Wh-- What do you mean the ‘right’ question!  I’m _askin’_ what you want!  People like you don’ _do_ this!”

“People like me?”

“Rich, fancy, spoiled folk like you!  Yes!”

Her expression softened, “... No.  Most folk like that do not help others.  Wealth and the love of wealth enslaves them.  But me? I am not a slave, mister. I want you to heal, because I want you to be well.  It does not matter that you are not wealthy, it does not matter that you are a criminal.  You are a human being.  You were fearfully and wonderfully made, and the work in you is not yet done.”

His raised voice had caused alarm, and Arthur could hear Samuel hurrying up the stairs to investigate.

Miss Bligh nodded, “... But I see the way you are looking at me, mister.  This is why we cannot talk about the majority now. Maybe later. You should get some rest.”

She stepped past him out into the hallway, assuring Samuel that all was well.  Together they went back downstairs after he heard her check on Lenny in the other room.

“... Sweet girl…” Hosea whispered with a chuckle from the bed, “... Naive, though.  Like her daddy…”

“You…” Arthur was at the bedside in a quick, “... you was _dead_ , dammit!  How you gonna... We thought…”

“What do you want, … Arthur?” The old conman grumbled, turning his face the other way, “... shot in the chest… must have blacked out…”

“... Huh…”

“... The rest… can wait…” Hosea said, and the younger man wondered what all ‘the rest’ entailed, “... John…”

“Pinkertons have him.  Not much we can do now… not with you, me, and Lenny like this.  I’m sure Dutch’ll figure out how to get him out…”

“... No,” Hosea mumbled, his eyes slowly shutting as if overpowered by gravity, “... he won’t…”


	5. The Morning Demands

Morning greeted Arthur at the closing of the front door.  Still as stiff and hurting as the day before, his ribs protested when he struggled to his feet from the floor to peer around the curtain, out the window.  He could see Samuel heading for the stables in the dim light. In this room shared with Lenny, there were no new notes today, and the tray from earlier was gone.  Breakfast would be downstairs. Lenny was still out.

“Wake up soon, kid…”

Hosea was also still sleeping when Arthur went to peek in on him, and he thought his color looked a little better than it had some hours earlier.

Downstairs, he followed the scent of coffee into the kitchen, and there he found Miss Carrie working the stove with eggs and toast.

“Good mornin’, miss.”

“Mhmm,” Was the response, “An’ you.”

“Can I get some coffee?”

“Sure, gimme jus’ a minute to get you a cup.” Taking a moment to arrange the skillet, the woman turned and opened a cupboard a bit down the kitchen, plucking out a cup, “You want me to pour it for you?”   
“Nah, I think I can manage,” He chuckled, “Ain’t used to bein’ waited on like your Miss Bligh…”

It was apparently the wrong thing to say, as the dark eyes leveled at him, “... I  _ know _ you ain’t comin’ in my kitchen to talk some nonsense about Miss Bligh…”

“Now, now… No, I did not, miss.  I’m jus’ sayin’ it how I see it--”

“--Well, then either you  _ blind _ , mister, or you an  _ idiot _ .  What?  You think ‘cause I’m colored, an’ Miss Bligh rich I’m some kind of slave or servant?”

“I see you in here doin’ the cookin’, an’ last evenin’ too-- maybe I got it wrong…”

“Sure, I do the cookin’!  Not all of it, but enough of it.  I do some cleanin’ as well, as it needs doin’, but if you  _ didn’t know _ , that’s how you care for a house, mister outlaw.  You gotta keep it clean an’ keep folks fed.”

“Well sure-- Look, I meant no offense, Miss Carrie, just forget I said anything…”

“You’d best hope I  _ do _ , mister outlaw.” In a huff, the woman turned for her skillet again, then remembered she still had the cup.  Even more irritated, she set the cup down firmly by the pot of coffee on the preparation table, “Here. An’ don’ make a mess or I’ll have  _ you _ cleanin’.”

Arthur quietly poured himself some coffee and started to retreat out of the kitchen.  Back at her skillet, Miss Carrie gave one last scolding.

“You take yourself outdoors, mister outlaw, an’ keep quiet.  Miss Bligh was up all night seein’ to your outlaw friends, so you let her sleep now.  Don’ let me catch you botherin’ her. You ain’t so big…”

Outside, the morning was cool, almost cold, and Arthur slowly walked the property, deciding to avoid the stables for the moment, sipping coffee.  Immediately he was caught in the realization that this brew wasn’t burnt-- as tended to happen in their camps fairly often-- and there was something different about the taste itself.  Maybe something different with the coffee beans?  _ Wealthy people coffee. _

Besides the stables and the house, he discovered the gardens and the chicken coop not far from the porch.  One turned over plot was lined with bricks in an oval and grew flowers and flowering herbs. The other were neat rows of vegetables in a rectangle.  Further behind the mansion was another building that looked like a barn, but upon closer investigation-- the doors weren’t  _ locked _ after all-- he discovered was the carriage house, with a very fine, custom carriage and harnesses for four, all well-oiled and waxed under their dust cloths.

He could probably get over a hundred dollars for it at the fence in Emerald Ranch, if he could get it there in one piece.

Out behind the property, the land grew rockier and steadily climbed up toward the forested foothills.  It was a good place from which to approach the property if somebody wanted to attack, though dangerous for horses.  Watching the slowly rising rocks and trees, Arthur had the feeling he was being watched by unseen eyes. He wanted his guns.

When nothing made itself known, however, the outlaw turned and headed for the stables.  Samuel had apparently finished his fence repairs and was hauling hay bales from the barn.  Trotting in from the run behind his stall, Slim whickered at Arthur’s approach.

“Hey, boy,” He greeted warmly, “You been good?”

The long black tail swished in response and the big Ardennes trotted back out into his run.

“I know, you don’ like bein’ stalled, boy…”

Maggie was enjoying her run as well, and seemed altogether much more content.  Silver Dollar was on the other side, still half-asleep.

Lancaster’s stall was empty, and looking out into the paddock, Arthur could see the big black stallion, mane and tail long, big hooves full of feather.  He was a majestic animal, the outlaw could readily admit, and he carried himself like he knew it, trotting energetically around the perimeter before plunging and blowing, getting the concern of the mares in their pasture.

Feeling Samuel watch him watch the resident stud, Arthur turned to meet the look, taking a final sip from the coffee-- the dregs cold by now, “...Miss Carrie don’ want me in the house,” he said, as way of explanation, “and I figure I ought to see to my own horses… but looks like you already done feedin’... Can’t say either of ‘em are used to grain like this…”   
The young man just blinked at him, flexing his work-hardened hands.

“Say, feller, you mind tellin’ me where our saddles and gear got stowed?  Or… showin’ me rather?”

After a moment, Samuel gestured to an open door between two stalls-- a little room, tucked in there.  Moving to investigate, Arthur found a room full of saddles-- but only four of them looked like any proper saddle he’d ever seen, and one of them was his, a second was Lenny’s, and a third was Hosea’s-- it was propped on a stand instead of on a rack on the wall, and the leather looked recently cleaned, though it was still stained with blood.  The others were too small, and too sleek, hornless, and stirrupless. Some others had crooked protrusions of leather off to one side, making the outlaw wonder how somebody was supposed to sit on the horse’s back at all. But his saddle, saddle bags, longarm holsters, and bedroll were there, and as far as he could tell, so were Lenny’s and Hosea’s.  Their weapons, ammunition, and provisions were not.

There was a big trunk on the floor that was about to get Arthur’s personal attention, but then he heard Miss Carrie hollering from the porch about breakfast, and Samuel appeared in the doorway of the little room, gesturing for him to come along.

“... An’ she tol’  _ me _ to be quiet…” The outlaw muttered to the younger man who shrugged and gave the ghost of a wry smile

* * *

 

Breakfast turned into a tense occasion.  Miss Bligh’s appearance caused her companions alarm and Arthur some mild curiosity.  Her face betrayed her sleepless night, but more than that, both her forearms were black and blue from wrist to elbow like she’d been on the wrong end of a fist-fight.  But nobody said anything about it.

They weren’t asking, and Arthur didn’t want to make it his business--though he had his suspicions and decided he would not be taken by surprise.

She informed him pleasantly about Hosea and Lenny’s conditions, mentioning how she was certain they were both recovering well.  Then there was a repeat of the chatter from dinner, asking after everyone’s night and plans for the day. The outlaw did not feel it overly uncouth to interrupt-- and even if it  _ were _ , it wasn’t as if he minded them thinking him uncouth.

“Miss, I don’ mean to sound ungrateful for all your help, but I’m gonna have to ask you where you put the rest of my and my friends’ things.”

When the silent staring stretched too long, he pushed back noisily from the table, aware of the aggression in his movements.

“Miss… I’m gonna have to insist you tell me…”

Samuel was climbing to his feet as well, in a much less abrupt manner, folding his cloth napkin and setting it aside instead of letting it fall to the floor as Arthur had.  But the outlaw’s gaze was on Miss Bligh’s face, on her bruised-looking, lake water eyes.

“Now?” Was her question.

“Right now.” He affirmed, “Unless you got a good reason for keepin’ them from me.”

Well,” She said quietly, “I don’t intend to keep your things from you at all, mister, though I can’t imagine you have a reason for needing them,  _ right now _ , at breakfast.”

“I’ll accept them after…”

“I’ll be happy to furnish you with them, then.”

Watching her expression carefully, still, Arthur added, “... The guns as well.”

She blinked at him, but otherwise that kind, quiet patience never shifted from her face, “You must excuse me, but I do not at all understand what you may need any weapons for.  Nobody here means you any harm, mister.”

“You’ll excuse  _ me _ if I insist on them anyway, Miss Bligh.”

Still her expression never changed, but she looked him in the eyes, and Arthur felt the moment stretch.  There was something surreal in it, and he felt gripped by whatever power was in the space between breaths.  Like he was being pinned down and examined, body and soul, by those lake water eyes.

"... Alright," She said at length, "but for now, please sit down and finish your breakfast."

**Author's Note:**

> Got questions? Want to talk about it? [Here's your mic! ](https://mtraki.tumblr.com/ask)


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